


no rest

by qar



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, IRL Fic, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qar/pseuds/qar
Summary: It's taken a long time. It's probably his own fault for procrastinating.Disclaimer:If any of the creators mention they are uncomfortable with these types of fics I will take this down.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 366





	no rest

Facial razors don’t work. 

It’s taken him days, months, hell, years to get here. It’s taken him an embarrassingly long time to finally, finally build up the courage to hold a blade to his skin and swipe. It’s taken him far too long, and he’s been punished for it.

They don’t work. He pulls at his skin, stretching it out so it’s unnaturally smooth, and drags. A thin white line appears, and he watches it disappear. They don’t work.

Again. Again. Again, this time higher. This time lower. The lines on his thigh disappear within a minute.

It’s not working, he thinks, kneeling into himself, feeling his body shudder as chills wrack through him. All this- all this for nothing. The facial razor in his hand glints, grooves shining tauntingly. He resists the urge to throw it and sets it aside with shaking hands.

It’s taken far too long. Hours upon hours of clutching his hair, rocking back and forth and mouthing along to music to stop himself hyperventilating. Too long of teasing himself with a blade; holding it to his skin and being too much of a coward to move it an inch. Too afraid of pain. Cowardly.

He’s still shuddering when he stands. He looks down at his hands; they’re shaking so, so badly. They still when he forces them to. It’s like he’s faking. It’s like he’s forcing himself not to be okay because he wants attention, or someone to notice. And he doesn’t deserve either, even if it kills him.

There’s a sharpener on his desk. A scissor by it. He picks them up. The sharpener’s so cold it burns; he lets the scissor dig into his skin as he angles it and uses it to unscrew the blade of the sharpener. It doesn’t leave a line. It doesn’t cut his skin.

Coward.

The screw comes out, and he stares at it, picking it out with his fingertips carefully and observing it. It’s small. Cheaply made. Someone’d have to clean up his blood. It’s selfish. No one would have to deal with him ever again. A kindness. 

He puts it back into the sharpener, digging the scissor back into the notch and squeezing. It hurts. Not enough. Harder. 

He deserves worse. He deserves pain and pain and pain and pain and to die over and over. There’s no specific reason other than the fact that no one deserves to suffer his presence. No one wants it. No one cares for it. 

He throws the sharpener when it’s screwed back together. It bounces, and doesn’t explode into a million little bits of shrapnel and kill him. A pity.

Facial razors don’t work. He’d bought them, a while ago, as a favor to himself. They looked kinder. Like they’d hurt less. Razors were harsher; all shining blades and used so, so commonly in suicidal situations. And that was what this was.

Maybe the facial razors would hurt less. And they did. A bit too less. A punishment for trying to be kind to himself. 

He doesn’t deserve anything good, does he? He buries his face into his hands. There’s no physical evidence that he’s hurt himself. That’s the worst part, he thinks. No matter how much he hits himself, or drags his skin with a sharpened pencil, or fucking slides a razor across his skin, nothing’s enough to mark him. His skin’s blemished, sure, but not the right kind of blemish.

It’s all or nothing in the end. If he’s kind to himself- if he tries to negate the damage, to save himself in any way, it’ll just… not be enough. He can’t live like this. He can’t live like this. 

He’s a coward, though. It took him days, months, hell, years to get to the point where he could hold a blade to his skin and drag. It’ll take him even longer to get to the big event. Maybe he’d be saved in that time. Unlikely. No one cared. 

He opens Discord with shaking hands. Wilbur’s online. He- he could message him. Wilbur was his friend. Wilbur could help. Hell, Tubbo could help. Phil could help, Techno could help, _ anyone could help, they would help- _

But would they really? Did Tommy deserve that?

Did they deserve to have Tommy disturbing them? There was- more important shit. Everything was more important. Tommy’s an attention seeker. Nothing more. 

His hands come off his keyboard. He rests his head in his face and cries.


End file.
